The Broken Charade
by Chasing Liquor
Summary: Last Man tag. "There's things we tell ourselves to make the days bearable." Hints of McKeller.


**Disclaimer**: MGM is a multi-million dollar film company, and I'm writing fan fiction. I think you know what that means... 

**Spoilers:** The Last Man

**Description:** An episode tag for "The Last Man." This is another experimental piece, a jagged look at the aftermath of some events in the original timeline, as experienced by Rodney. 

**A/N**: There's a little bad language in this, but that's about the only thing to warn you about, besides the hints at McKeller. I do hope you read and enjoy this. Whatever you think of it, though, I'd appreciate some feedback on it. Thanks! 

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**The Broken Charade**

* * *

The preacher said her soul had been repatriated into God's kingdom.

It was hard to be moved by that. He'd have loved to believe it, but the platitude sounded as ancient as Atlantis, and God was an afterthought in a universe with Wraith and Goa'uld. Creation had been smuggled down from Heaven, and the rest was living history.

McKay's eyes found Landry and Teal'c, who stood side by side, heads bowed. He did his best to look as stoic as them. It was a petty effort, but he wanted so badly for her friends to respect him. He found himself wondering if she'd ever said nice things about him, and he could barely swallow the bile the selfish musing conjured.

When they lowered the capsule into the ground, he decided the whole thing was stupid. The Earth kept spinning, the sun still hot, and yet here stood sixty-seven people blessing an empty cedar box. It struck him kind of funny the way humans fumbled for closure. She was dead, gone, vanished, and here they were demanding a definitive conclusion, when there was no one owed but all the dust, and that debt had been repaid.

He tried talking to everyone afterward. Her brother was cordial. So was Landry. Teal'c and Jack and Daniel and Mitchell didn't have much to say to him, though. They acknowledged his condolences with the briefest of nods, and then they were gone.

That was almost enough to make him cry. He was sure he would have too, if Vala hadn't approached him of her own accord and pulled him into a strange embrace.

"I'm sorry for you too," she said.

He nearly crushed her in his arms.

OooooooooooO 

It was a miserable day in Portland, but everything would be better once he made it home. There wasn't much that could sully the evening.

He was drenched in water and without an umbrella, but it didn't really bother him as he stepped back outside, slipping a velvet box into his pocket. It had taken four tries, but the adjustments had finally been made to his exact specifications.

The weather man had said the skies would be clear today. It used to make him angry when the guy was wrong. A lot of things used to make him angry. He'd finally taken all of that and put it where it belonged, though. His life had been a lot a better since.

He half-jogged to the near curb, holding his arm above his head to block some of the rain, which pelted him painfully where his skin was exposed. After trying without success to hail a cab, he gave up and began to make his way down the sidewalk. It was only a ten minute walk or so from there.

The passing cars kicked up water from dirty puddles, so he tried to follow the outline of the buildings. He must have had a strange expression or looked generally ridiculous, because the eyes of every passerby – dry and unsquinting 'neath their umbrellas or hoods – seemed to look on him with pity or confusion. Human beings were addicted to opinions, he thought. But it rolled off of him like the rain. He was only two streets from home now.

Pausing at the sidewalk's edge, he waited for a pair of cars to pass through the intersection, then hopped to the pavement with a long stride. He landed awkwardly, though, and suddenly he was tumbling. Before he knew what had happened, he was lying on his back in the street.

The rain spiked down on his uncovered face, and he desperately twisted onto his stomach, then pushed himself up to his knees.

Struggling to his feet, the rain making him ten pounds heavier, he patted around his waist to make sure he hadn't lost anything. His heart stopped when he felt his empty coat pocket.

"Oh no."

He looked down frantically, searching the street around him, dropping down to his knees like a child might. His eyes then fell with utter terror on a storm drain a foot away from him. Scrambling over to its edge, he looked down inside of it just in time to see the velvet box swept away by a river of rain water.

"No, no, no!" he shouted. "Fuck!"

He pushed himself to his feet, winding his leg back and kicking anything in reach – puddle water, the curb, a nearby street sign. The people walking by moved carefully away from him.

"Come on!" he screamed, looking up at the sky, which replied unfettered with its torrential downpour. "You can't give me this _one fucking thing_?!"

He made a fist and slammed it against the streetlight. It felt good, so he did it twice more before the fight finally left him and he doubled over at the knees, gulping for air. It was just so futile, he thought.

The rest of the walk home was like a dream. He might have continued past his complex if he hadn't nearly been hit by a car coming out of the parking lot. The driver's horn tore him out of the ether.

When he finally made it up to the door, he was shaking so badly that it took him nearly a minute to fish his keys out of his pant pocket. He reached his battered, trembling hand toward the lock, managing to slip the right key in after a protracted struggle.

Then he opened the door and clumsily stepped inside. Jennifer was sitting on the couch, reading some book he'd given her. He was trying to remember the title when she looked up. As soon as his appearance registered, her lips turned down in a deep frown and she was on her feet, moving toward him.

"Rodney!"

He tried to remember what a smile looked like, but he couldn't. The keys fell from his hand, clattering to the floor as she reached him.

"God, you're freezing. What the hell did you do, join the Polar Bear Club?"

McKay didn't respond, trying in vain to shrug off his jacket. Jennifer slipped behind him, removing it on his behalf. It pooled on the floor beside them.

"How long were you out there?"

Before he could respond, Jennifer took his hand – bright red and bleeding around the knuckles – into her own. He grimaced.

"Did you _hit_ somebody? Jesus, Rodney. Come on."

She led him through the living room and down the hallway toward the bathroom. He followed docilely, his mind frozen on a single thought, like a record skipping back to the same lyric…

It's a mirage, this idea that you'll ever get where it is you're going.

OooooooooooO 

Dr. Lam was a nice enough woman.

She'd tried in vain the last three days to send him away for some proper sleep. You'll only be down the hall, she'd reasoned. But clearly the end of all of this wasn't far off, and he'd not be slumbering in a comfortable bed when it arrived.

Some of the local personnel had stopped in to check on him and Jennifer. It had surprised him when he felt Mitchell's warm hand pat his back, and when Daniel told him that nothing's over 'till it's over. Neither of them made things better, but it was truly fascinating that they'd tried.

Jennifer had been in and out of sleep constantly the past day or so. She was generally confused when she woke, agitated, only calming at the sound of his voice or the feel of his hand. Her eyes were sunk back in her head, like his dog's were when he was a kid right before he'd crawled under the house to die.

Around two o'clock in the morning, she woke up delirious, mumbling incoherent syllable strings that meant nothing to him. He pulled his chair closer to the bed, stroking her forehead, trying hopelessly to erase the pain lines. He gripped her hand with his other one, his thumb working in smooth circles.

"It's okay, Jen," he whispered. "Everything's…" His voice caught. "… going to be just fine."

Her body began to spasm, not violently, but enough that he understood what was to be.

He could hear the footsteps of the on-call doctor. Part of him wished the man would leave them be. They didn't need him anymore.

McKay couldn't bring himself to look up.

"She's fine," he insisted hollowly. "Just feeling a little sick, that's all."

Jennifer continued mumbling beneath her breath.

The doctor didn't say anything, watching the monitor carefully. Her readings were growing more erratic, but he stood there passively.

McKay continued to stroke her face as her grip on his other hand slackened. The spasming began to subside, and the readings on the monitor got fainter and fainter.

"Rodney," her tiny voice murmured. "Rodney…"

He sprung up out of his chair, knocking it over behind him, and he leaned down overtop of her, bringing his face right next to hers.

"I'm here, I'm here," he told her quietly. "I'm right here."

Jennifer's eyes rolled around, not looking for anything in particular, though they did pass over his face. The corners of her mouth were twitching, her lips parting like she intended to speak, but only small moans escaped.

"What is it, Jen?" he asked softly. "I'm right here."

Something dripped off of his face onto hers. Jennifer's eyes began to roll back into her head.

"Remember to come back Tuesday," she mumbled distantly.

He nodded as if it weren't gibberish, kissing her forehead, then her eyes, which slipped closed.

"I will," he declared.

Her body stilled, her face relaxing. The line on the monitor evened out, and just like that, she became one once more with the great black nothing.

The doctor explained that the dying often utter nonsense; he called it a neurological reaction. Then he left McKay with the body.

OooooooooooO

He tugged at the knot at his neck as he waited at the door for an answer. Behind him on the porch, a light breeze sounded some rusting chimes, which made bittersweet music as the seconds mounted. He was about to knock again when the door opened.

A fairly small man stepped into view, narrowing his eyes in inquiry.

"Yes?"

"Um… hi. My name is Doctor Rodney McKay."

The man showed some level of recognition.

"You… work with Jennifer, don't you?"

McKay forced a neutral expression, clasping his hands behind his back so that he could fidget with them.

"Yes. I'm afraid I need to speak to you about her."

There weren't a lot of things that could mean. It wasn't clear if the man knew that or not, but his bearded face was tensed when he invited McKay inside.

He led him into the living room, which was doubtlessly designed by a woman – or women – dominated by floral patterns and sentimental photographs. It had probably looked like this for a long time.

McKay found himself drawn to the far wall, which was covered with framed pictures of Jennifer and her mother. His eyes passed over all of them, afraid to linger on any one.

It should have made it easier that the man didn't appear anxious or demanding or such, but somehow it was just the opposite. He wished the elder would just grab him by the collar and shake this out of him, but he waited patiently, his eyes unreadable. The man was something like his daughter that way.

"Mr. Keller… I'm terribly sorry that I have to tell you this, but…" He took in a ragged breath. "Jennifer… she's…"

No matter how hard he tried to give voice to the fact of the matter, the words just wouldn't come. Speaking it was a mere formality anyway, though, one the man saved him with a curt nod.

"I see," he said quietly.

He looked away for a few moments, nodding softly to himself, and then he walked over to a cedar table in front of the sofa, where a bottle of Jameson sat beside an empty glass. McKay watched as he filled the glass three-quarters of the way, and he wondered about his eyes. These weren't the eyes of a man hearing his daughter was dead; they were the eyes of a man whose daughter died a long, long time ago.

"How did it happen?" he asked, taking a greedy sip.

"It was… rather sudden," McKay lied. "She was in an accident."

The man nodded distantly, taking another generous sip, his face contorting with the bitter taste. The seconds passed like some endless penance, until the scientist couldn't take it and spoke again.

"Jennifer and I were… together," he said, looking away when the man caught his eye. "I thought you should know that. We were happy."

"Happy?"

McKay thought the voice sounded so cold.

"Yes. I loved her very much."

"I'm sure you did."

The man smiled callowly, casually ambling toward the wall perpendicular to the one McKay was standing near. His eyes flicked over some old still shots. It looked like someone else's family.

"Nothing ever made her happy," he said. "I can't remember a single thing that ever satisfied her."

McKay stiffened.

"_I_ did. And that ought to be enough for you."

The rejoinder didn't faze the man, who turned and looked on the scientist as a wiseman would his successor.

"It's not for anyone to say what's inside another person, Mr. McKay."

"She _loved_ me. We took care of each other."

"I'm sure you did, but there's things we tell ourselves to make the days bearable. The truth of it is, happiness isn't much more than a broke charade. It's a thing we use to trick ourselves."

McKay's eyes darkened. He thought about all the things one man could do to another one.

"There weren't any tricks with us. Either believe that or don't, but it won't not be true."

The man turned back to the photographs. McKay stood watching, hands squeezed into fists at his sides, like he was waiting for it to all go wrong. It didn't, though. The man's voice was as a calm as it ever had been.

"Thank you for coming, Mr. McKay."

The scientist looked on him a moment longer, pitying the lines around his eyes. He couldn't have been more than fifty-five or sixty, but he bore the marks of someone who'd lived twice. How did a person get to look like that?

McKay turned to leave, slowly crossing the enormous divide between he and the front door. When he reached the edge of the living room, the man called out to him.

"Mr. McKay."

He paused.

"What was the last thing Jennifer said?" the man asked, his voice a little different now. "Do you know?"

McKay glanced back at the bottle on the cedar table, then looked forward again. His voice was as gentle as Jennifer's.

"The last thing she said was how much she loved you."

He wasn't sure why he said that, or if it even mattered. But as he walked back out into the terrible world, alone save the shining sun, he suddenly realized with an open heart that our debt's not to the dust.

And hour by hour, day by day, maybe that would be enough.

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FIN


End file.
